


Sail on, Silver Girl

by Dracones



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: But the story is good, Don't own the song, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, In the story or of Ice and Fire, It was probably a bad idea, Non-Graphic Violence, just to clarify, please read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracones/pseuds/Dracones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is a curious thing. Sometimes it seems to rush past, others it appears so slow. But always it is running out.</p><p>Or, what happens when I get a bit of free time and inspiration to coincide for once, start musing over love and loss, and decide at eleven o'clock at night that the best thing to do is write a oneshot based roughly on the song Don't Look Back into the Sun, or rather, based on its first verse, and also largely on Bridge Over Troubled Water...</p><p>Or; Here is a story… It's quite emotional... you know what? Right now it's 04:26 AM. Please read the story. If you do, thanks. Feel free to tell me what you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sail on, Silver Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look back into the Sun,  
> For now you know that your time has come,  
> Though they said that it would never come for you.  
> Oh my friend you haven't changed,  
> You're looking rough and living strange,  
> Though I know you've got a taste for it too.
> 
> -The Libertines.

Love is immortal, he'd thought, once. A folly of youth and youth alone, to believe that anything could last forever. Particularly anything as beautiful as that which had once been between them.

Pain is immortal, he thinks, now. Death and darkness are the only constants in this realm. No matter how much light, it must someday run out of energy to shine. No matter how full of life a person is, it drains from them, with time, and soon enough ends.

She was of light, he had thought, when he saw her first. It shone in her eyes, her hair, her smile. Her soul. For all that her attitude was of veni, vidi, vici, for all her overriding his decisions and threatening to kick him out, he understood, he let her have the final word, because he saw a light in her that was brighter than the sun, and it can light his path or blind him but he would rather the former.

Now he knows the truth of the matter. She was a fire, for she lit another one in his heart and fed it with every touch, and no light could do as much. But her fire flickers. It is almost out, his sun, her heart. It will light their path no more.

From the moment they met, he had seen something different in her. Everyone had. She was impossible to miss from the start; pretty, yes, beautiful even, but still something more, something indomitable and powerful. Most good-looking people he met were relaxed and confident and perhaps arrogant, but he was sure she would be no less prideful had she not been graced with such elegant cheekbones. He could tell from how beautiful she had appeared in ragged clothes sitting at the bottom of a stairwell in an underground station, busking, locks of short, silver hair falling over her eyes as she played a guitar's rendition of Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water and sang it beautifully too.

None but her, he was sure, could look so good in such a state, dirt on her face and hair and body.

At the time, she had not even seen him, immersed in the music, and he had dug a two pound coin from a pocket and tossed it into her open guitar case and continued past her to the platform as she reached the instrumental section before the final verse.

He loiters, as close as he can get to her while remaining on the platform, headphones unplugged, listening to her and joining in under his breath.

As she finishes, his train arrives, and he boards slowly, wishing he could listen to the music all day, the music of the silver-haired girl without a home or a job, judging by the state of her at least. He wishes he could forget his work, at the company which has been providing nightly security to numerous firms, banks, and people since about the Bronze Age - thank fuck he was chosen for an admin role, some of the more physical employees had been killed a few months ago and now the rest were dropping like flies. The resignations had halved the company - NightWatch - in size. He wishes he could call in sick for the day and listen to her all day, or get his guitar and come back and play a duet or something.

"Sail on, silver girl," he quietly mutters to himself on the crowded train, and within a second he's begun to hum the next line. But it is when he he reaches the pre-chorus that his heart begins to ache, and he whispers the next section. "Oh, if you need a friend… I'm sailing right behind… like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind." He stops singing then.

Though his work is on an entirely different line and the changeover is in six more stops, he disembarks at the next, and takes the train back, and gets off at her platform. He walks past her and up the stairs and almost out of the station, up to the barriers, before he has enough signal to make a call.

"Jeor… Yes, this is unusual, I… I can assure you that this is not my resignation, sir.… Yes, I-… A personal problem, sir. I'd rather not… Yes. Like that.… That's fine, don't apologise. It was beyond both of our control… Similar, yes, potentially. I just feel that it's serious and may get worse." It wasn't a lie. That day, he had felt a responsibility form in his heart, a tie, through the lyrics of a beautiful, beautiful song and the girl who was singing it. His brothers' and father's deaths had both torn his heart apart. Were he not to follow where it tugged, however strongly or weakly, the strings it tugged him with could break, too. "…Thank you. I will." He hung up.

He hurries back down. She's playing some meaningless pop song now, an attempt to gain the favour of those who conform to the charts, he guesses. She clearly doesn't pay it the same regard as Bridge Over Troubled Water, for her strumming is formulaic and she looks to the masses rather than the strings. Hope lights up her eyes as she catches sight of his smile, directed at her, and dies a little when he sits on the stair, opposite her, while people pass him and turn left or right as she sings and stares at him, confused, but continuing. It is when the song is over that he speaks, staring into her violet eyes.

"I'm Jon," he tells her. "What's your name?" She is silent, and when it is clear that she will not answer but has not yet tried to drown him out with a song, goes on. "I'll call you Silver Girl, then." At this, she narrows her eyes.

"That was fifteen minutes ago. You weren't here then."

"I beg your pardon, I gave you two quid," he tells her. "It was beautiful. I've always loved that song. But then I got on a train and rode away before I realised that there was a silver girl right here and lonely, and I just realised that I wanted to be sailing right behind you when you needed a friend. I'm not going to work today, I called them and everything. I'm going to try to help you. However I can."

"And if you lose your job for this, what then?"

"They won't fire me, they've few enough people as it is. Too few."

She considered this for a second. "Wherever this place is, can you get me an interview?"

He grins. "Certainly. Interviewing people is only my bloody job! I'll need… well… A CV and a phone number." The grin slides off his face, as does hers.

"I don't suppose you happen to have a spare phone on you, then? Or a printer?"

"Not on me," he tells her, and she tilts her chin, as if proven right. "At home."

She raises her eyebrows, before telling him with a smile that lit up his world, "My name is Daenerys."

And so it was. He brought her home, cleaned her up, and they wrote her a CV. She moved into his house on a temporary basis, which became more and more permanent as time went on; they have no choice in this but each other. Neither of them had contact with family; Sansa was living the live of a recluse somewhere in the Swiss alps with her Aunt Lysa's family, Arya was somewhere in the Norwegian Fjords, he thought, but for all that she was his favourite she was a spirited and flighty one, maintaining few lines of communication; she had, he was convinced, spent almost a year travelling with a band of gypsies at one point, and rumour had it that her current location was home to a secret band of recluses who were obsessed with character-acting and lying.

As for Dany, her family on a whole were long-dead.

And he now feared that she would join them soon, even as the light that he so loved in her eyes flickered, as the fire he longed to nurture died out slowly.

They had formed a band, or, rather, she had joined Jon's, and shortly after that they formed a relationship. It was a beautiful partnership, a beautiful world. They worked together, rested together, played together, and they lived together, ate together, and fell in love together. The band went from strength to strength. After a year their music was on a few radio shows, and a record company was interested. Jon knew that they would make it, that he and Dany would love one another for centuries and more. Things could not have been going better when the band was assaulted in an alleyway one night returning from a gig.

Grenn was killed, by a massive, violent drunk weilding a machete and a knife, though during the struggle the giant was impaled on one of his own blades, and eventually bled out. Four more attacked Dany, Pyp, and Jon. Jon broke his nose and took a bad cut to the shoulder, Pyp recieved nothing more than scratches, and Dany… was fading before his eyes on a hospital bed, stabbed in the stomach.

The beautiful sunlight behind his Silver Girl's eyes was dying. So was she. She was awake, and knew what was happening as well as he did.

"I have a few more minutes, at least," she tells him, softly. Then, she frowns. "Our song. We've sung it together, I sang it to you, when we met… Will you sing it to me? Now?"

He kisses her on the lips. "Anything."

And then he sits back at her bedside, the bedside of his dying love, his failing heart, his wounded sun, his fire's embers. And he sings, and his throat is hoarse and there are tears in his eyes, but he sings, because she asked it of him and he would do anything for her.

"When you're weary,  
Feeling small,  
When tears are in your eyes,  
I will dry them alll.  
I'm on your side,  
Oh, when times get bad,  
And friends just can't be found,  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will lay me down.  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will lay me down.

When you're down and out,  
When you're on the street,  
When evening falls, so hard,  
I will comfort you.  
I'll take your path,  
Oh, when darkness comes,  
And pain is all around,  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will lay me down.  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will lay me down.

Sail on Silver Girl,  
Sail on by,  
Your time has come to shine,  
All your dreams are on their way.  
See how they shine,  
Oh, if you need a friend,  
I'm sailing right behind!  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will ease your mind.  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will ease your mind."

"I love you," he tells her, because it might be his last chance.

"I love you too," she tells him, because it is. He can tell; he kisses her forehead and holds her hands and sits on the edge of the bed as the fire that he so loved goes out forever.


End file.
